


Emergency Protocol Activated

by audreyskdramablog



Series: Emergency Protocols [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Attempted Kidnapping, Blood, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Injury, Major Character Injury, Pre-Canon, action scenes are the worst, architecture is the second worst, because apparently that's what prompto's pov demands when i write him, overusing em dashes and italics, with a bit of extra blood thrown in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 05:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16298708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreyskdramablog/pseuds/audreyskdramablog
Summary: “We have orders to extract you and Argentum from the area.”“What?” The question is more reflex than anything, and Prompto looks to Noctis for some kind of indication about just how bad this ranks on the royal shit scale and why he is suddenly involved, but Noctis isn’t looking at him.Noctis has gone very still, except for his eyes. He’s scanning the café like he expects to find something there. None of the Crownsguard respond to Prompto at all.“Where’s the car parked?” Noctis asks, and the tension in his voice is enough for the first trickle of fear to work its way through Prompto’s stomach.Oh, fuck. This is bad. This issobad.





	Emergency Protocol Activated

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place about a year and a half after [Emergency Protocol Talk](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15811851), when Prompto and Noctis are both 19 and out of high school. You really ought to read it since the central conversation there is crucial to Prompto's decisions in this fic.

Prompto grabs their coffee and heads for the table Noctis managed to snag. Well, half a table, really, considering how packed the mall’s fourth-floor café is this morning. Someone else already spirited away the chair that should have gone with the two-person corner table, so he has to squeeze into the bench seat next to Noctis instead of sitting across from him. It leaves Noctis trapped against the tiled wall, so Prompto will have to get up first if Noctis wants out. 

Noctis, for his part, is still coming to terms with being awake before noon on a Saturday. The gigantic coffee Prompto sets down in front of him should help with that. The movie they’re going to see in half an hour ought to do the rest. 

It’s a pretty typical arrangement for them. Noctis prefers the theater down on the first floor with its wide, reclining leather seats and not-sticky floors to the rundown theater in Prompto’s neighborhood. Tickets are  _ way _ out of Prompto’s comfort zone, just like everything else in this mall—a seven-story cylindrical monstrosity in glass and steel and marble, though Prompto can admit that the central, open well with a beautiful view of the first-floor water fountain from every level and the quartets of long, graceful escalators are kind of cool—except for the coffee. So Prompto lets Noctis buy what passes for matinee movie tickets in this stupid rich mall, and Prompto buys the coffee, both so he doesn’t feel like a leech and as a small apology for making Noctis wake up on mornings he doesn’t have any royal responsibilities and could have been sleeping in. 

“How was your run this morning?” Noctis asks as he dumps a packet of sugar in his coffee without even tasting it first. It is, however, a good sign that he is talking before actually drinking any of it.

“You are looking at a guy who finally broke 11:30 on a 2.5k.”

Noctis actually turns as much as he can when they’re thighs-elbows-shoulders together on the bench and blinks at him. “Yeah? That’s a new PR, right?”

Prompto grins. And preens—just a little—because he is really proud of finally smashing through that plateau after weeks of stalling and thrilled that Noctis remembered his run times. It definitely makes up for getting yelled at for his early morning cheering-slash-screaming in the middle of his neighborhood when he verified his time. “Yep! There’s nothing that can stop me today. I’m on a roll.”

Prompto  _ needs _ that time—and better. He has the Crownsguard physical fitness requirements memorized, and they’re brutal. Four different categories: distance, sprint, push-ups, and sit-ups. In order to even get through the door, he needs a minimum score of three points in each category and a minimum total of twenty points altogether. His time today bumps him up to six points for distance and brings his total up to fifteen. He’s not there yet, but he’s  _ so _ close. If he can beg enough hours at the camera shop to pay for a month-to-month contract at the gym and its collection of not-buckets-filled-with-soup-cans weights, he might actually be able to qualify for the Crownsguard entrance exam in the spring.

He doesn’t want to just scrape by. He’s got to  _ earn _ it, because he knows that if he can’t clear the test somewhere in the middle of the group, people will think Noctis pulled strings for him. 

Which is exactly why Noctis doesn’t even know he’s training for the entrance exam. Or Ignis, or Gladio, because the three of them gossip worse than the grandpas in Prompto’s neighborhood who sit on their stoops all day to spy on everyone. So far as they all know, he’s taking a gap year after high school to figure things out and get his feet back under him after his parents politely sold their home in Insomnia and gave him the graduation gift of a deposit on a studio apartment. 

And it’s not  _ really  _ lying, anyway. This  _ is _ a gap year and he really  _ does _ need to work, and holy shit is food expensive when he’s trying to get into Crownsguard shape. Prompto’s pretty sure Gladio goes through at least three kilos of meat a week to have muscles like he does. 

(Not that Prompto’s comparing or anything.)

“So what are you going to do next?” Noctis asks. He sips his coffee, makes a face, and grabs another packet of sugar. 

“I wanna knock it down to 11:15 before it starts to snow. Then I’ll just aim to hold that over winter.”

The neighborhood he lives in now doesn’t have a trail nearby, and according to the neighbors, the sidewalks and streets rarely get salted or plowed before noon because of how far away they are from anything important. He really needs access to a gym. Treadmills aren’t as good as asphalt or grass beneath his sneakers, but it’s better than losing all his progress and starting over in spring. 

Prompto redirects their conversation to the preparations for the upcoming winter solstice celebrations—Noctis immediately begins complaining about how he has been fitted for three different outfits already and the festival is weeks away—to minimize the time Noctis has to think about how specific Prompto’s running goals are. Prompto makes sympathetic noises while he pries off his coffee lid. He’s busy trying to pick between the hazelnut- and honey-flavored creamers on their little table when he feels Noctis tense up beside him. 

That has him looking up, first at Noctis. There is surprise in the sudden clarity of his gaze and tension in his jaw—he looks way more alert than he was just a second ago, when he was whining about different shades of black silk. Prompto can feel the muscles in his shoulder and arm bunch up. 

Then he looks to where Noctis is looking, and Prompto suddenly gets why Noctis is acting the way he is. Four men in royal black are cutting through the crowded café and headed straight for their table, leaving buzzing onlookers in their wake. They’re as grim as their clothing and are  _ openly  _ carrying their weapons in public. 

Prompto can’t see the color of the soles of their shoes, but they’re clearly Crownsguard, and they’re stalking their way through the crowd like they’ll cut down anyone who doesn’t move fast enough.

“Your Highness.” The tallest of the four, and the one that is apparently leading the squad, bows shallowly with his fist over his heart. The other three take up hasty positions and practically glare the café patrons into pulling back further. “We have an echo five.”

Prompto has no clue what an echo five is, but he can practically  _ feel _ the sudden, sharp breath Noctis takes. 

“We have orders to extract you and Argentum from the area.”

“What?” The question is more reflex than anything, and Prompto looks to Noctis for some kind of indication about just how bad this ranks on the royal shit scale and why he is suddenly involved, but Noctis isn’t looking at him. 

Noctis has gone very still, except for his eyes. He’s scanning the café like he expects to find something there. None of the Crownsguard respond to Prompto at all. 

“Where’s the car parked?” Noctis asks, and the tension in his voice is enough for the first trickle of fear to work its way through Prompto’s stomach. 

Oh, fuck. This is bad. This is  _ so _ bad. 

“South exit. Your Highness, we need to go.”

And then Noctis hooks one of his fingers underneath Prompto’s wristband. Right over the barcode. Like he’s about to pull it off. 

Prompto startles so badly he yanks his hand away and has to make a wild grab with both hands to keep his coffee upright. Some of it sloshes over the edge and scalds his fingers, but that pain is the least important thing happening right now. He looks at Noct, wide-eyed, his heart suddenly trying to beat its way out of his chest. 

Noctis never touches his right wrist, he knows better than that after the one and only time in high school when he tugged on Prompto’s old white and green sweatband and asked why he wore such a dorky looking thing. The closest he’s ever come to alluding to it again was when he gave Prompto the wristband he’s wearing now. But even then, it was Prompto’s choice to wear the royal favor in its place—Noctis didn’t ask him to. 

Did Noctis see the barcode? Did Noctis  _ see? _

The expression Noctis is wearing now is something Prompto has never seen before. There is something in the dark intensity of his eyes and how carefully blank the rest of him is that screams something is wrong. “Come on, Prompto, we’ve talked about this.”

The hell? 

Prompto scrambles for any memory he can think of related to Crownsguard showing up randomly, spouting codes he doesn’t know the meaning for, but adrenaline has his heart racing and his mind empty of basically everything but fear. Maybe—maybe following orders? He’s supposed to answer whenever Ignis or Gladio calls while he’s with Noct, follow directions if they ever start barking commands in public—

Oh, shit. The Crownsguard are saying that he and Noct need to go with them, but crowded as they are into the corner like this, Prompto has to get up first to let Noctis out, unless Noctis is going to literally climb over him or the table. 

Humiliation propels him to his feet. “Right! Sorry!” He squeezes his way through the gap between tables, hurrying out of the way so Noctis can follow after him. 

One of the Crownsguard grabs him by the shoulder before he can go too far, and he stops right away. 

“Prompto—”

Prompto has the impression of movement in his periphery, but with his shoulder caught in a tight grip, he can’t turn to look. 

“ _ Now, _ Your Highness.” 

Noctis makes a sound that’s almost a snarl, but he gets to his feet and sweeps past Prompto. He is radiating fury and something sharper with every step, and—

And Prompto knows he’s fucked this up. Somehow.

The tall one takes point, Noctis right behind, and the second and third guard fall in, one at each shoulder. Prompto gets manhandled into the spot behind them, with guard number four taking the rear and finally letting go of him. 

They’re out of the café and heading for the nearest set of escalators by the time Prompto realizes he still has his lidless cup of coffee clutched in both hands. His fingers are bright red but not blistering, and it’s such a stupid thing to notice at a moment like this that he has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. 

Prompto forces his attention away from himself and back to Noctis. He isn’t all that far ahead, though the Crownsguard soldiers flanking him are close enough he can’t see much more than Noct’s dark hair peeking over their shoulders, a thin slice of his back in the gap between them, and his boots snapping against the marble flooring. 

He studies the movement of Noct’s feet, and sure enough, his footsteps are still beating out an angry rhythm when he steps onto the escalator that leads to the third floor. 

It’s not wide enough for two burly, armed men to stand side by side comfortably, so there’s a moment where guard three has to pause mid-step right before the escalator so guard two can get on, his weight spread between one foot and the toes of the other, his heel lifted—

And the sole of his shoe is the wrong shade of red. 

It’s a subtle difference. So subtle that Prompto, as much of an eye that he has for color and lighting, doubts himself and that split-second glimpse. 

He’s already feeling off balance and out of his depth and why is he even questioning the color of a Crownsguard’s shoes when normal wear and tear could dull the—

Noctis, touching his right wrist. 

No, not his wrist, the  _ wristband _ . 

_ Come on, Prompto, we’ve talked about this.  _

Two years ago, in Noct’s living room, trying to explain the dangers of being in a prince’s orbit, of people knowing that Prompto has his favor. 

_ You’d be collateral damage, killed as a witness, or they’d take you, too, to ensure my cooperation. _

The hand on his shoulder, movement he could sense but not see, Noct’s fury and compliance. 

Fuck.

Number four gives Prompto a little shove between his shoulder blades, and Prompto steps onto the escalator automatically, too stunned for a moment to do anything else. 

This isn’t—this isn’t really happening, is it? 

_ You need to run away. _

He looks desperately to Noctis, but from this angle, all he can see is the top of his head. He wills the prince to glance back, to give him some kind of signal, but luck isn’t on his side today. 

Prompto is approaching halfway down the escalator to the third floor, and he knows he has exactly two choices: doubt himself, or believe.

Noctis is in danger either way, from whatever this echo five thing is or from fake Crownsguard. But there’s only one way Prompto’s presence limits him. 

Prompto stares at his coffee, makes his decision, and lets out a shaky breath. Then he flings his coffee, cup and all, to where memory says number four’s face ought to be—the man shouts—and vaults over the escalator’s railing before second-guessing can freeze him. 

Four meters is a fall that jolts up his ankles, knees, spine, jaw when he hits the third floor. Prompto nearly faceplants, catches himself hard on his hands, and—

Noctis doesn’t shout his name or demand to know if he’s okay. Instead, above and behind him, where the escalator is, where  _ Noct  _ is trapped, Prompto hears something like shattering crystal and steel on steel.

_ Fuck.  _

So Prompto bolts, darting away from the sweeping escalator, hoping that’ll break the line of sight between him and the fight that’s just started. 

And the panic, too, because it’s a crowded Saturday morning at a mall and— _ Six, _ one of them has a gun, the shots booming, echoing through the seven stories of open well, and suddenly Prompto’s not the only one running away, not the only one screaming for others to run. 

Someone clips his left shoulder hard, and Prompto staggers, but he manages to keep on his feet long enough to throw himself inside the nearest storefront instead of getting dragged down by or along with the crowd. 

He nearly goes face first into a display of copper cookware. Prompto knocks a few sets onto the floor but terror and momentum keep him going until he spots a little empty space between two ornate wall displays of patterned plates. He wedges himself into the spot, beneath the frame of some abstract oil painting that vaguely resembles fruit, and desperately fishes his phone out of his jeans pocket. 

Gladio is his number three on speed dial. Prompto shivers like he’s got the Glacian cradled in his hands, but he makes the call. 

The phone rings and rings. “Hey, Prompto,” Gladio says when he finally picks up on the fourth ring. “I can’t—”

“Four men are attacking Noct!” Prompto doesn’t even bother to contain the fear in his voice because what he sounds like is the actual last thing that matters. “We’re at the Astral Plains Shopping Centre. Fourth—no, third floor. They’re dressed like Crownsguard! They tried to take us, but Noct’s fighting them.”

This time it’s Gladio’s turn to swear, and then he’s turning from the phone and shouting to someone on his end—Prompto has no idea who. He can’t hear the reply, but there is an eruption of noise from Gladio’s side, and Prompto clutches his phone and counts the space between gunshots with his frantic heartbeat. 

“Prompto, I need you to tell me exactly what you see.” This is a new voice, a man, remarkably calm and collected for all it sounds like it’s coming from a distance. Gladio must have put him on speakerphone. A siren starts in the background, and the man has to raise his voice to be heard over it. “Where is Prince Noctis? What exactly is going on?”

_ I don’t know _ is on the tip of his tongue, and Prompto swallows the response. “Just—just a second.”

He needs to go back and see instead of staying under the cover of safety. Prompto turns to do just that, wastes a precious second trying to figure out how he missed drops of blood on the marble flooring, and decides safety is more important than dignity. He rises to a crouch and then scrambles, practically on hands and knees, back to the storefront, peeking out around the edge of the entrance to the store. 

The first thing he notices is someone in blue jeans and a green sweater lying still on the floor between the store and the escalators, face wide and blank. Blood seeps out from under him, but Prompto can’t see the wound it’s coming from. He presses the back of his left hand to his mouth and swallows down the fear and disgust that tries to work its way up. 

“Sir,” a woman’s voice says on the other end of the line, “mall security won’t respond. Two teams are en route and will get there before us.”

Prompto swallows again and forces himself to look elsewhere. He can hear the sounds of metal clashing, Noct’s warping, an occasional gunshot, but the escalators are between him and the noise, and he  _ can’t see. _

“Prompto,” Gladio is stern but not sharp. “Talk to us.”

“Someone’s been shot. Not Noctis. I think they’re dead. Most people are gone from this floor, I think, but I don’t think the mall’s empty yet. There was a lot of screaming and everyone was running away.” His voice trembles less than his hands, which is a distant surprise. “I can’t see Noct from where I am but I can hear them fighting.”

Which means they haven’t killed Noctis. In danger is better than dead, but it’s also near the bottom of the list of states Noctis should be in.

“Can you get to a vantage point where you can see the prince?” the man asks.

Prompto bites his tongue and considers the options in front of him. There are a few kiosks for pop-up vendors scattered along the walkway. The waist-high glass and steel railing that separates each floor from the central open well has tables, chairs, and benches placed in strategic spots for people to take a break and admire the view below, plus some support pillars that keep the walkways from collapsing on each other.

“Yeah, I think so. Hang on.” He puts his hand over the speaker to muffle the faint noise of the distant siren, listens hard, tries to gauge the positioning of the fight from the echoing sounds of scraping steel and gunfire, and overlays that noise with his mental image of the mall. 

The first, crouched sprint is easy—the path from the store back to the escalator he jumped off of is clear of any obstacles except for the body. Prompto presses himself against the escalator, takes a moment for a handful of steadying breaths to fend off lightheadedness, then peeks out again to pick the next place he can move to and take cover. 

He works his way along the curve of the walkway in short bursts, running from table to kiosk to pillar and back again, until he is finally able to see the fight from behind a table. The view is a terrifying sort of relief that has him dropping his voice down to just above a whisper. 

“Noct’s taken one of them down, he’s on the floor and not moving, but there’s blood on Noct’s pants. I think—he’s hurt, but so’s one of the others. He’s only holding his sword in one hand.” Prompto is vague on a lot of the aspects of swordsmanship, but he’s pretty sure that a sword that size needs more than one hand on it for any real control or power, and guard two has a long streak of red down the arm that’s not holding the sword. “The other two look okay—”

Then Noctis warps suddenly, and he full-body slams into guard two, swordpoint first. Even from how far he is from the action, Prompto can  _ see _ the spray of blood, and then Noctis yanks his sword free and is warping again, further away from Prompto.

“Noct took down the injured one!” He manages to whisper-shout instead of actually shouting. Part of him is stunned that Noctis just  _ killed _ someone, but the rest of him is just so fucking relieved that the dead someone  _ isn’t  _ Noctis that he’s actually excited. “Just two left, and they’re moving again. I’ll try to keep up.”

“Which direction are they headed in?”

More shots, and Noctis ducks behind a kiosk for cover. That gives guards one and—four, it’s number four with the gun, time to close the distance.

“Um, the south side of the building. They’re between that gourmet chocolate shop and—”

Movement down below draws his attention, and Prompto looks through the glass railing to see what’s happening. There, sprinting past the water fountain on the first floor toward the escalators that connect to the second floor, is a group of four people in black. 

For just a second, hope floods through Prompto. But then he remembers Noctis asking where the car was parked, realizes the direction these new people are coming from, and the hope sours.

“Are your teams here yet?” The words come out strangled.

The woman answers immediately. “No. First ETA is in three minutes.”

“Fuck,” Prompto says with every bit of feeling he can muster. It comes with a brief, dizzying bout of lightheadedness. “Four more fake Crownsguard, they’re on the first floor, heading for the east escalators. They must’ve been waiting at the car.”

“Prompto, you’ve got to warn Noct.” That’s Gladio again. There’s tension in his voice, and Prompto knows it has to be killing him not to be here right now. 

The man’s voice comes next, right on Gladio’s heels. “Is there anything you can do to stop them from getting to the prince?”

His first instinct is to say no. Of course there’s not anything  _ he _ can do, not against— _ trained assassins _ or whatever the hell these people are. He has an extremely limited skill set, and he’s pretty sure none of it’s designed to stop anyone from actual murder. He’s still five points shy of being good enough to pass the Crownsguard entrance exam.

But maybe he doesn’t have to  _ stop  _ these people. He just has to slow them down. It’s just three minutes until someone who can actually help Noctis arrives.

He can do anything for three minutes, Prompto decides. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll try.” He shoves his phone back in his pocket without hanging up, cups his unsteady hands around his mouth, and screams, “Noct! Four incoming!” because that’s how he always says it when unexpected hostiles show up in their video games.

Then he turns away from the fight and runs back north, the way he came. 

Each floor except the very top and bottom has four sets of escalators at the compass points, two connecting the floor to the one above and two to the floor below, alternating by level as to whether they connect above or below at each point. It’s designed so that a person can basically go up or down the entire mall in an elegant, uninterrupted spiral around the open center. There are banks of elevators and emergency stairs on the perimeter of the mall, but the escalators connecting the third floor to the second are going to be the fastest way from the first floor to Noctis, and Prompto throws his entire being into sprinting to the north set. He barely manages to keep from crashing into the top of the escalators, but he doesn’t care, he just slams his fist into the red emergency stop button between the up and down escalators. 

The escalators stop, but an alarm activates, a sudden beeping that has Prompto jerking back. He isn’t sure if the gunshots that follow are aimed at him or not, but Prompto can’t divide his attention between finding cover and his plan, so he ignores them and moves on to step two. 

He rushes to the nearest table, grabs it— _ Six _ , he really needs to get that gym membership, his left shoulder  _ burns, _ his grip is way too weak, and sweat is pouring hot down his back—and drags it to the escalator. Then he pushes the table in front of him, down the stopped escalator steps, until he can lodge it down far enough that they’re going to have to figure out a way to scramble over it or pry it out of the way in order to get up to this floor. 

There’s nothing clever or subtle about his plan, and he doesn’t know how long it will actually hold the men coming up from the first floor, but it’s the only thing he can think of. He scoops up the chairs that went with the table and repeats the process until both the up and down escalators between the second and third floor are blocked by a tangle of decorative metal.

One down, one to go. 

Prompto spares a glance toward the fight, and Noctis is—even from just a look, Prompto can tell that Noctis is tiring. He’s not sure if Noctis is retreating after him or if the men he’s fighting are pushing him back toward where the fight started, closer and closer to the west escalator that connects the third floor to the fourth. Noct’s warping all over the place, and Prompto knows from all of Gladio’s mostly good-natured ribbing that too much of that will put him into stasis, and he’ll be practically helpless then. 

How long has this fight been going on? How much longer  _ can  _ it go until Noctis runs out of magic?

There is a heartbeat where Noctis catches sight of him, and Prompto feels a rush of fear so strong it leaves him weak-kneed and cold. Not for himself, but for Noctis, because Noct hesitates—

And Prompto understands, suddenly, in a way that he only thought he understood before, why Noctis needs him to run away. It isn’t because Prompto can’t protect himself, not really; it’s because Noctis will try to protect  _ him _ even when he needs every bit of his training and skills to save himself.

“Go up!” Prompto screams at him.  _ “Go up!” _ Then he bolts away from Noctis, circling toward the east side of the mall, like he’s heading for the escalators there that will take him to the fourth floor.

And, thank the fucking Six, Noctis darts for the west escalators and warps up them. The two men still standing chase after him, but that puts another floor between Noctis and the incoming fake Crownsguard.

Prompto passes the east escalators at a dead run and heads for the south ones, the other set that connects to the second floor. He snatches a chair once he gets close, ignoring the painful impact of the metal against his palms, the burning echo of pain in his left shoulder, skids to a stop—

Because there are the fake Crownsguard, running up the escalator, straight for him and closer to Noctis. 

So Prompto does the only thing he can think of in that moment: he hurls the chair down the escalator. He can’t even savor the victory of it bowling one of them over, or the pained, surprised shouting as the man topples back into his fellow wannabe prince-killers, because he knows all the way down to his bones that he’s out of time. 

That  _ Noct _ is out of time. 

Prompto rushes back to the remaining chairs. He scoops up one in each hand, swings around, and instinctively throws them both at the man who has cleared the escalator. The chair from his left hand goes wide, but the other hits home, knocking the man and his sword into a sprawl on the floor, but that means Prompto doesn’t have anything left to throw when another man pops up, aims, and fires.

The bullet hits hard enough that it knocks the breath and strength from his chest, and Prompto crumples before he can actually process what has happened. 

His ears are ringing, though whether that’s from the impact of his head, shoulder, hip on the marble or because his lungs aren’t working, he can’t tell. He tries to move, but the floor is slick with blood and his fingers keep slipping when he tries to push himself back up. 

Boots rush past him, and from his angle on the floor, Prompto can tell that the soles are the wrong color. Maybe. The world is going old-photos-sepia from the edges to the center, so maybe he’s wrong.

All the colors are wrong.

* * *

Prompto gasps. 

The world swims back into focus, too bright and dark all at once, and Noctis leans in above him. Fear is written in the lines of his face and the color of his eyes.

Prompto reaches up, presses his hands against Noct’s chest, tries to push him away.

Noctis grabs both his hands so hard it feels like something will break. “It’s over, Prompto. I’m safe. You’re safe.”

He blinks, risks looking away from Noctis for just a second. There’s Gladio beyond Noct’s shoulder, hovering like a thunderstorm about to break, and all around a ring of other people bristling with weapons and turned outward, pointing them at the world instead of Noctis.

“Okay,” Prompto whisper-chokes, and he sinks back to the floor. “Okay.”

* * *

Prompto becomes aware of the light first, warm and distant, almost soft where it settles across his face. He hovers on the edge of waking, but his bed is so tempting that it—

His bed?

_ Noct _ .

He opens his eyes, squints against the light, tries to call Noctis’s name, but it comes out garbled.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

Prompto turns his head, and yes, there’s Ignis, who somehow managed to cram his computer chair—his only chair—into the small slice of space between his bed and the wall. It’s so bizarre to see him here because none of his friends have ever been inside. They normally meet up at Noct’s apartment.

“Iggy?” He licks his lips, remembers Noct’s hands on his, and sits up slowly. “Is Noct okay?”

Ignis closes a file folder filled with papers and sets it and a pen on his bed. “He’s rather anxious to speak to you, but he is otherwise well. Noct, unfortunately, is in lockdown at the Citadel for the foreseeable future, and Gladio is with him. Once the lockdown is lifted, he will undoubtedly reach out to you.” 

Relief washes over him, leaving him almost dizzy in its wake. Noct’s okay. Even though he screwed up, Noct’s still okay. “Good. That’s—that’s really good.” 

“Indeed. You both gave us quite the scare.”

“Oh, shit. I was supposed to call you after I called Gladio. Sorry.”

The look Ignis gives him is the one Prompto has dubbed  _ I Cannot Believe You _ . It’s a subtle expression that’s equal parts exasperation and fondness, and usually it’s only ever aimed at Noctis. “I do think that I can forgive you under the circumstances.”

Prompto presses his hand against his chest, remembers the bullet slamming into him, how quickly and easily he fell. He tries to laugh, but it comes out weak. “Yeah. Nothing like getting shot once to get some sympathy points.”

“Twice.”

“What?”

The fondness is gone; only exasperation is left. Ignis has transitioned into full-on  _ Brace Yourself _ mode. “I take it, then, that you didn’t intentionally neglect to tell Gladio and the marshal you were injured when you called?”

Prompto gapes at him. “No, I wasn’t. I mean, I spilled coffee on myself, and okay, the jump hurt, but it didn’t  _ really _ hurt, not for more than a couple seconds, and I wasn’t—”

“According to the security footage we retrieved, you were shot almost immediately after the fight started.”

“No way. Where?”

“Your left shoulder.”

Prompto opens his mouth to argue with that—and then pauses. He remembers someone hitting his shoulder, careening into the cookware display, the blood spatter he’d missed on the floor, the way his shoulder hurt, how weak his grip was. “Oh. Okay. Maybe I was.”

Ignis is too dignified—or too unwilling to be an asshole to someone who was apparently shot twice—to actually roll his eyes, but Prompto is pretty sure it’s a near thing. “Luckily, the first gun had less stopping power than the second, or else you may not have been able to assist as you did.”

“That’s…” Prompto squirms a little from the guilt. “Kind of you to say?” 

And then he winces, because Ignis’s face has gone carefully blank, in the way that screams he has a very firm grip on his feelings. Feelings that should not be expressed in polite company. It’s the kind of blankness that even gets Gladio to prep for a polite, calmly delivered, verbal lashing. “Prompto. You single-handedly notified the Crownsguard of an immediate life threat to the Crown Prince of Lucis, warned him of additional threats, convinced him to make a strategic decision that likely saved his life, and incapacitated two of his attackers. The only two attackers, mind you, who survived the encounter, which means we may have an easier time uncovering their motivations and the identities of any additional backers.”

Incapacitated—oh. Prompto remembers throwing the chairs. That worked? He really hadn’t expected that to actually work.

Ignis motions to the closed folder. “Which is essential, considering there is at least one mole within the Crownsguard, likely with a lower-level security clearance. The code the imposters gave Noctis was outdated by two weeks. In brief, an echo five currently indicates an order to shelter in place, not an extraction. It may take some time, but we should be able to use that information to root out the mole soon.”

Well, that would explain Noct’s reactions in the café. The fake Crownsguard had given the code to stay put and then said they had to go. Not that Prompto had figured out something was wrong until it was almost too late, but still. 

“So do not downplay your actions,” Ignis says, and his tone indicates he will accept no arguments. “You did well today, Prompto. Unquestionably so. Do not be surprised if you are offered an official commendation.”

Prompto’s face burns, and he looks down at his right wrist, where he already wears an unofficial royal favor. It’s only then that he catches sight of the shirt he’s wearing, and it is  _ definitely _ not the shirt he was wearing when he left his house this morning, and his embarrassment and fledgling pride at Ignis’s praise immediately gets doused by fear. 

Someone changed his clothes. If they took them off, then the wristband—

He clamps his left hand over his right wrist and yanks both arms close to his chest and looks to Ignis, terrified of what he will find there. Did Ignis  _ see _ ? 

But Ignis is not staring at his wrist. The blankness of his face has softened into an expression Prompto has no name for. All he says is, “Noctis insisted I disturb you as little as possible. He also asked me to convey his apologies for startling you at the café.”

He’s really hopes that translates to  _ I didn’t take off the wristband. _

“It’s fine.” The words stumble out, and Prompto wishes his heart would believe them and stop trying to escape the confines of his ribs. “Noct just—I get it. I could’ve—I could’ve cleaned up myself when I woke up. You didn’t have to.”

“I rather doubt you would have wanted me to put you to bed when your clothes were soaked through with your own blood.”

Actually, yes, that sounds perfect, because he’d rather buy new bedding than deal with the sick rush of adrenaline he has right now and the chance that someone else saw the barcode.

Something of that must have made it onto his face, because Ignis is suddenly leaning forward looking very— _ intense. _ Prompto finds himself scooting back until his shoulders hit the wall at the head of his bed.

“Prompto,” Ignis says, and he slowly and carefully enunciates every syllable as he speaks. “You died today. The Crownsguard had to administer a phoenix down to revive you. Magical curatives, particularly a phoenix down, can be exceptionally draining the first time. Please do your friends a favor and allow us to take care of you as best as we are able. The only reason Noct and Gladio are not here is the lockdown.”

The words sink in, or at least the ones about  _ friends  _ do, because Prompto’s heart finally slows its frantic pace. 

(He can think about dying and coming back later. Or aggressively not think about it, that’s something for future him to deal with.) 

It still takes a few moments for Prompto to uncurl his fingers from around his wrist and place both hands back into his lap.

“All right.” He swallows and gives Ignis the best smile he can muster. It’s probably shaky, but it’s sincere. “I think I can do that.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [tumblr](http://audreyskdramablog.tumblr.com/) & [twitter](https://twitter.com/audreyskdrama) if you like.


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